


His Heart Would Not Take Flight

by dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drinking, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 02:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20649884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba/pseuds/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba
Summary: A night spent drinking, thinking over his choices, his current mental state, locked up in a place of supposed comfort, with nothing but a bottle of cheap whiskey and a scratchy, velvet couch that he never liked.Somewhat of a depressing time of night. Relatable, if you feel like you're falling apart at the seams, failing at being a proper person.





	His Heart Would Not Take Flight

**Author's Note:**

> This is an official trigger warning. This is a stream of consciousness that spirals to dark places. If you're triggered by the concept of failure, loneliness or toying around with the idea of ending it all, I urge you not to read this.  
Either of the Winchester boys can be imagined here.

It's bitter on his tongue. Flowing roughly, scratching at his throat, distracting him from the ear-bleeding-ly loud questions that ring around his head, echoing. Cushions engulfing his form, sinking into them like it's someone's arms, faux velvet almost itchy, not really allowing him to picture that. Tepid glass rested on his knee, light dim and warm.

A deep breath in and the thoughts still don't stop. Why does he keep feeling like this? Numb yet so painfully overwhelmed? Like a twenty pound cloud of smoke weighs his lungs down, much like honey, slow and sticky at the mere thought. He could barely move if he tried, simply because he doesn't have the courage to.

And maybe- you know, maybe this is just him. He's a man full of guilt, of rapid-fire thoughts, of obsessions and regrets and yearnings. He wants answers, a future. More than this bottle of cheap whiskey that's slowly making everything hazier, yet heavier.

Like- he's stuck. Nowhere to go. Frozen in solid concrete that solidified much too quick for him to process. It's now glued everywhere, got him immobile and cold and struggling to breathe.

Will the questions ever stop? Will he ever feel full again? Completely full. With a partner under his arm, love flapping it's little moth wings near his heart, having an effect so grand and great, he'll sprout wings himself and fly to the moon.

Yet, at the same time, it's remotely ridiculous; the consideration that one is only ever completely full with another person. That those wings won't appear otherwise. That he won't ever see the moon up close, alone. 

And maybe it's his mental state that obstructs him from finding a person or a purpose. Maybe it's the nights like this one, having him unable to move, overwhelmed and feeling so much, yet nothing at all. Numb but loud and heavy. Or maybe he's truly undesirable by the good people, because he doesn't deserve them. Truly deserves nothing but trash, because if the people once around him (not anymore and it's his fault, and his fault alone, the distance)- good, incredible, kind, soft spoken, beautiful people- don't like him in that context, then they have good reason to. He trusts their instincts. So clearly, _clearly_, there's something wrong with him.

He's tired. Where's his happy ending, god damn it? Where are his fireworks and bright mornings and celebratory cheers? Where's his peace and quiet? A meadow of tall, tilting flowers, brushing his knees at the blowing wind? No noise. Just birds and their singing, bugs and their buzzing, a bright pink and orange sky, peppered bubblegum clouds all around. An endless horizon of possibilities. Is that truly so impossible? Is it so much to ask?

He presumes, well, he has to try and reach for it, but he feels nothing short of a pathological liar, a guilt-ridden, whiny, good-for-nothing crushed bug that once annoyed all of its friends, now on the floor, unmoving, lifeless, waiting for its imminent death to finally take it away. No self control or energy to try, no truths, just procrastination, egotism, excuses and lies, lies, _lies_ to the people that try to help him, because he's afraid to disappoint them.

Is he still talking about bugs? He doesn't know. He's not making much sense. It's all just a ball of tangling self loathing and disgust and scummy stickiness, holding him together with the strength of melted cheese between diagonally-cut toast.

He wishes he had the strength to kill himself. And that's harsh, he knows, but he does. He wishes there was no hope left in him, that he didn't still think there was a sliver of a chance he could be happy again, because he does. He thinks there's something, a person out there, that can put him back together. Can sew his broken pieces into one with the strength of spider webs. He thinks that everybody can be happy eventually, he believes there's this dust particle of a chance it will get better and he fucking _wishes_ he could _sweep_ it away.

He wishes he didn't fucking care so much about his people, he didn't give a damn in the wind if he hurt them when he was gone, because sadly, he believes they _would_\- gethurt. He knows they love him, doesn't understand it of course, because how can anybody find any good in him? But the people around him have expressed it enough for him to know. They love him. And he hates that. He hates it, because it's the second to last thing tying him down. Because every time he thinks of self-inflicted death, he sees their teary faces, their guilt, thinking it's their fault, that he didn't trust them enough. He also sees that future that's keeping him from ending it all. That tomorrow could be the day it started.

But no day of his is ever different from the last.

He feels so pathetic. Boo-fucking-hoo, he can't get himself together. Boo-fucking-hoo, he is too much of a drama queen to fix any of his situation, he expects everything to just work itself out with time. Bullshit. He's just as shitty as the self-centered characters in every teen show he's ever watched, thinking they're special snowflakes, that nobody else is going through the same amount of crap, or they're just... Dealing with it. That there's something wrong with the chemistry in his brain or something, he's not just weak and a complete moron. Listen to him! It's not him, it's the _chemistry in his brain_. What a pathetic, class A bullshitter. He almost convinced himself.

He needs to leave. Exit the situation. Start over, new. Somewhere else. Disappear. Gone. Forgotten, hopefully, cause he doesn't deserve any memories, occupying dusty, dirty space in someone's mind. He's not worth it. He doesn't do much but sit there. Piece of shit.

He should go to sleep. Start over, a new day tomorrow. Maybe he'll feel better. Maybe the bottle of whiskey won't be there. Maybe he'll have the courage to throw it away, or even have a shower. Yeah. That sounds nice. Hopeful bastard. That's what has him trapped here. Hope. A rotten thing when it's fruitless.

Stop-he - he really has to stop. Sleep. Right, okay. He can do sleep. Sleep's good. A new start, remember? In the same situation, but- no, okay he has to quit thinking like this. A new start, period. Okay. Sleep.

When'd he reach the bed? He's not sure. He's dumping his body on it though, cheek smushed just beside the pillow, no energy to pull it closer. Limbs moving on their own accord, and that's probably the whiskey.

Jeans still hung on his hips because he can't be- can't be... Bothered. Yeah. That's the word. He... Thoughts... Uh, he can't, uhm... form any right now. That's good. That's why he keeps doing this anyways- drinking himself stupid. Something's working for him finally. Head heavy, eyelids- when did they get so heavy? And finally, sleep. Total unconsciousness.


End file.
